At school, our conversations were brief, like passing glances between two people who shared a secret no one else could see.
A small smile in the hallway.
A wave from across the courtyard.
A simple, “Hey, how’s your day going?” when paths happened to cross.
It wasn’t much — and yet, somehow, it was everything.
While the school walls kept our moments short and fleeting, the real conversations happened when the day finally settled.
Screens lit up the quiet of my nights, where our words could stretch as far as we wanted them to.
“How’s your homework?”
“You should get some rest too, dummy.”
“Hey, did you see that funny video I sent you?”
The more we chatted, the more natural it felt.
No awkward pauses. No forced smiles.
Just… two people, slowly weaving an invisible thread between them, one small talk at a time.
Sometimes I would laugh quietly at her messages, feeling a warmth that lingered longer than I expected.
Sometimes, I’d stare at the last message she sent, rereading it once or twice before replying — not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I wanted to say it just right.
There was a comfort growing between us, like sitting beside a campfire you never wanted to leave.
It wasn’t love — not yet.
But it was something rare and precious.
Maybe the best stories don’t start with grand confessions under fireworks.
Maybe they start with simple words shared in the quiet, when nobody else is watching.
And maybe — just maybe — that was enough for now.
